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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26872033">Everything Grows (rounder and wider)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/pseuds/TeaRex'>TeaRex</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Body Worship, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnant Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, cum sharing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:26:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,382</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26872033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/pseuds/TeaRex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He hardly recognises himself like this. He looks into the mirror and he doesn’t see a warrior. He doesn’t see strength, or power. He doesn’t see a fine plasma sword whetted by the fight - the crystal is the heart of the blade, and the blade is the heart of the Jedi. He doesn’t see a Jedi. He sees something soft. And weak. He sees something clumsy, and curving, and round. Ripe. Plump. Full.</p><p>Or, at the peak of his pregnancy, Obi-Wan fears if he's still the man Qui-Gon, his husband, still now desires.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Backwards QuiObi Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Everything Grows (rounder and wider)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orientalld/gifts">Orientalld</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title inspired by: "Everything grows rounder and wider and weirder, and I sit here in the middle of it all and wonder who in the world you will turn out to be." - Carrie Fisher</p><p>This fic was co-written by Tessiete who is the real MVP of this story and its creative process. This was a challenge for the both of us, and we hope our efforts are worth it, and all those who take the time to read it, enjoy it. </p><p>This fic was based on the featured art by Orientalld - who can by found on Twitter by the same name.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>He hardly recognises himself like this. He looks into the mirror and he doesn’t see a warrior. He doesn’t see strength, or power. He doesn’t see a fine plasma sword whetted by the fight - <em>the crystal is the heart of the blade, and the blade is the heart of the Jedi.</em> He doesn’t see a Jedi. He sees something soft. And weak. He sees something clumsy, and curving, and round. Ripe. Plump. Full.</p><p>He used to feel hungry.</p><p>The figure in the mirror looks glutted, and unwieldy. There’s nothing sharp or keen about him. His hair is tousled, streaked with grey left by a hard war, the side part still stubbornly defiant in its furrow. His beard is trim, and tidy. His eyes clear, though he feels tired. But that’s where the resemblance stops.</p><p>The hard pectorals of his chest, once broad and firm beneath a plastoid pauldron have turned pendulous, tender flesh overflowing the cradle of his hands. And below, the taut lines of his stomach have curved, billowing into a sensual roundness.</p><p>He’s not conceited. And he’s not vain - at least, not overly. But he is fastidious. Prideful in his appearance. And like this - half dressed, his hair wild, belly round and breasts aching - he doesn’t <em>feel</em> desirable.</p><p>He feels slovenly.</p><p>His lips purse, twisting into a sour knot as he considers his reflection and decides this present state does not suit him. For all that there is <em>more</em> of him now, it is too much. And he cannot bear to look. So he turns away, draws a robe over his shoulders, the sensual satin caress of the fabric too gentle to soothe his turbulent thoughts, and moves to the common room of his shared quarters.<br/>
He doesn’t expect Qui-Gon to have returned, having been called before the Council early in the morning - another loss that Obi-Wan had never thought he’d miss - but his husband is there. He turns to Obi-Wan and smiles, coming close to press a sweet drink into his hand, and a tender kiss upon his shoulder.</p><p>“There you are,” he says. “I was wondering when you’d be up.”</p><p>“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. You should have said.” Obi-Wan says.</p><p>Qui-Gon smiles, his face lined with indulgent delight. “You need your beauty rest,” he says.</p><p>“What time is it?”</p><p>“Nearly midday,” his husband replies. “It’s not like you - I was almost convinced I should worry, but I see I need only bring some sweets to tempt you from your nest.”</p><p>It is spoken fondly, but today Obi-Wan’s heart hears something bitter in it, and he licks his lips, his mouth gone dry with disappointment.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he repeats.</p><p>Qui-Gon sighs, and pulls the robe higher over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, returning some structure to his state of disarray. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he hums. He is still smiling, but then he turns to reach for a pear, sitting ripe in a bowl on the table, and Obi-Wan can no longer read his face. “I should expect such indolence from you at this time.”</p><p>Is it...It cannot be malice. It cannot be criticism. Qui-Gon has never been subtle in his displeasure, and it has been years since his husband saw fit to school him as a Master. They are equals, now. Have been for many years. They are partners. Bonded. Mated. They are in love.</p><p>And yet…</p><p>He stands there, bared to the waist for want of clothes that fit, and want of energy to care, wearing only a dressing gown, and soft, white synthcotton breeches, sucking on a pink pearl tea, and is astonished by his own defeat.</p><p>Knowing him as he does, Qui-Gon hears something in his silence, and looks at him. Juice from the pear drips from where he’s bitten in, and he wipes the back of his hand dry on his opposite sleeve.</p><p>“Obi-Wan?” he asks.</p><p>“You’re not -” Obi-Wan hesitates, wondering at the wisdom of tempting fate, wondering what he’ll do if the answer is unfavourable. “You’re not unhappy, are you?”</p><p>And though a swift denial might bring more comfort, as usual, Qui-Gon meets his question with a question. “Are you?”</p><p>And Obi-Wan frowns, his shoulders drooping, one hand passing across the warm swell of his stomach. “No, I...I meant nothing by it. Forget that I asked.”</p><p>“Forget you asked after my happiness, while looking somber as a Sentinel?”</p><p>“It’s not important,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m being silly.”</p><p>“Then let me be silly with you. Tell me,” Qui-Gon says. “Why should I be unhappy if you aren’t?”</p><p>He steps close. Obi-Wan can feel the heat of him against his skin, though they do not touch. He can taste the pear on his breath, though they do not kiss. He can feel his Force signature surge up against his own, like waves upon an unassailable rockface, and knows that eventually, even the stone will fall to the embrace of the sea. Why shouldn’t he? So he does not resist.</p><p>“It’s only that this was so unexpected,” he ventures. “We’d no time to consider - and I didn’t think...but now I wonder how many times I’ve forced my mistakes on you. How many of my own responsibilities you have shouldered.”</p><p>“Your responsibilities?”</p><p>“My knighting,” he says. “My apprenticeship, even. Melida/Daan. Naboo, and later - Geonosis, and Teth. The fall of Dinvali at Gan Moradir -”</p><p>“Well, that last was more of a misunderstanding than a catastrophe -”</p><p>“Utapau. Anakin -”</p><p>“- Is fine. We are fine. All of us. These injuries are old, and long healed. Why do you linger on them, still? Fretting away, and picking at scars?”</p><p>They don’t feel old. Some days, they feel new, and pink. Some days, they still feel bloody. Obi-Wan feels his head nod beneath their weight but is helpless to explain his fear lest he teach Qui-Gon to feel the same.</p><p>“It’s just…” he tries. And tries again. “It is none of it planned. None of it desired. It is just one unfortunate incident after the next, and I, the harbinger of such unexpected tragedies.”</p><p>“Tragedies seems the wrong term for what you have brought to my life,” Qui-Gon counters, his voice low and firm.</p><p>But Obi-Wan is defiant now, righteous and convinced. “Oh,” he says, lifting his chin. “Then how might you define such circumstances?”</p><p>“Preludes to joy,” says Qui-Gon, the counter quick to his tongue, and hot enough that Obi-Wan recoils as though burnt. “What’s brought this on?”</p><p>“Nothing,” he insists.</p><p>“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says, leaning on his name. “Unplanned does not mean unwanted. You must know that. The greatest joys in my life - my greatest loves - have never been planned, but that does not mean I desire them any less for the spontaneity of their arrival.”</p><p>“And yet you cannot desire this,” he says, his outrage extinguished, his body sagging in surrender.</p><p>“Your tongue?” Qui-Gon retorts. He hooks one finger beneath Obi-Wan’s chin and tilts it upwards until Obi-Wan is forced to either meet his gaze, or appear a wanton for a kiss. “I confess, I can think of more enjoyable ways it might be employed.”</p><p>“This,” insists Obi-Wan, and all his fears, all his worries, all the insecurities he’s harbored for nearly nine months are borne along in that sole word.</p><p>“I desire you.” Qui-Gon’s voice is low, and soft, barely a vibration against his ear. Obi-Wan closes his eyes against the image of himself, naked, and pink, and rolling flesh. “Obi-Wan, of course I do.”</p><p>“Don’t -” <em>Don’t lie</em>, he thinks. He is too scared to speak it.</p><p>“Can you be so uncertain of my love for you? After all this time?”</p><p>“No,” he replies, breathless. This close and the scent of Qui-Gon is heady, and overwhelming. It promises all the things he’s too afraid to ask for, and he nearly forgets his fear entirely. “Maybe. I don’t doubt - I shouldn’t doubt…”</p><p>“You <em>shouldn’t</em>,” Qui-Gon agrees. “But if you’d give me the opportunity I would like to try to convince you otherwise.”</p><p>Obi-Wan scoffs, flushing red as Qui-Gon’s hand drifts lower to squeeze one heavy breast.</p><p>“That isn’t necessary,” he insists. He feels his own cock stirring at the touch. But the lingering self-consciousness remains, and makes him hesitant to expose his own need.</p><p>Qui-Gon rumbles a disagreement, low in his chest like distant thunder, dragging his nose across Obi-Wan’s skin, and leaving a trail of light kisses across his shoulder. At the jointure of his neck, he nuzzles close, licking at the hollow of his clavicle, tasting the bite of salt, and the sweet remains of soap, before his appetite overwhelms him. He bares his teeth, and bites, gently at first, but at Obi-Wan’s gasp, he can’t help but press them hard against the skin, harder still, and sucking, until a purple bud appears, blossoming on his neck.</p><p>“Not necessary,” he rumbles, lifting his mouth to Obi-Wan’s ear, their faces so close, that his beard trails a blush across the crest of Obi-Wan’s cheek, his breath rustling the soft hair at his temple, warm and heady. “But I’ve prepared a thorough argument, and am quite eager to present my case.”</p><p>“Well, then,” Obi-Wan sighs. His eyes drift close as he turns his face to Qui-Gon, begging a kiss. “If you insist.”</p><p>And suddenly, he’s stumbling backward under the force of Qui-Gon’s weight, thrust against the wall, knocking the wind from him.</p><p>“Really,” he gasps, turning to free his mouth from Qui-Gon’s own, and smiling. “You ought to be gentle with me, in my <em>delicate condition</em>.”</p><p>“You shameless brat,” Qui-Gon growls. He catches one of Obi-Wan’s wandering hands at the wrist, and pins it to the wall, pulling back to admire his prey.</p><p>Obi-Wan’s eyes are a sliver of indigo veiled beneath the fluttering fall of golden lashes. He lifts them to Qui-Gon’s face, deep, and dark, and wanting.</p><p>“Have mercy,” he breathes.</p><p>Qui-Gon’s answering grin is positively savage. “Oh, my dear heart,” he laments. “There are to be no negotiations here.”</p><p>They fall together then, as ravenous beings upon a feast.</p><p>The robe slips from his shoulders, and Obi-Wan reaches to grab it, but Qui-Gon’s hands are there first, grasping at his wrists and holding him fast.</p><p>“No, wait, I -”</p><p>Qui-Gon pulls back, his gaze speculative as he searches Obi-Wan’s face.</p><p>“I see,” he says, when Obi-Wan flushes, and his eyes dart to the discarded gown. “Oh, I see. All this for vanity.”</p><p>“Not <em>all</em>,” Obi-Wan scoffs. He rolls his eyes, the motion tipping back his head and leaving his neck bared to Qui-Gon.</p><p>“My beautiful boy, you are a fool.”</p><p>But Qui-Gon’s chastisement falls on deaf eyes, drowned out by the ragged gasp which leaps from Obi-Wan’s lips as his lover draws a course up the incline of his throat with his tongue. He is hot, and dizzy, and vaguely contemplative of the texture of the ceiling, and the halo of the lights as they dazzle his eyes, the walls of the front room somehow being magically exchanged for those of the bedroom with any notice of his feet.</p><p>He tenses, as Qui-Gon gathers him close, wrapping around him, tucking his head beneath his chin, and leaning forward until Obi-Wan can feel gravity relent.</p><p>“No, wait, I-” With the flat of his palm, he presses against Qui-Gon’s chest, but the Jedi doesn’t yield.</p><p>“Hush, my heart,” he soothes. “Trust me. I can carry you.”</p><p>There is nothing that would induce him to take arms against Qui-Gon, to fight against his Master, and so the great Negotiator surrenders.</p><p>He has, for so long now, felt cumbersome, and awkward, but Qui-Gon takes him in his arms and lays him out against the linen sheets so easily, as though he were no burden. As if he weighed nothing at all.</p><p>Braced upon one elbow, Qui-Gon smiles down over him. Hot afternoon sun illuminates their bedroom, coursing over every fold and crease of white fabric, racing over every inch of Obi-Wan’s transformed body, laying him bare to Qui-Gon’s scrutiny.</p><p>He threads the fingers of his other hand through Obi-Wan’s copper hair. It flows between his callused knuckles like water, or fine silk, so soft as to almost be imperceptible. He frowns. The strands falling back into their uniform lines, only slightly tousled by his perusal. He follows their course, letting his hand fall to the crown of Obi-Wan’s head, then down, tracing the shallow apex of his ear, then back to rest against his neck, at the base of his skull. With a broad thumb, he gently strokes the white skin of Obi-Wan’s throat.</p><p>Obi-Wan can sense the change in his mood and shifts beneath him.</p><p>“Qui-Gon? I -”</p><p>But he gets no further than that, because the look that Qui-Gon fixes him with is such that cannot be answered with words. It is as though the very model of Serenity Herself lay fixed within his grasp, and on the cusp of absolute triumph, he has instead turned inward, and let Her go. There are tumoults in his eyes. Heaving oceans of feeling beneath a mirror-glass surface. Undercurrents, and riptides of passion, lust, and longing. Swirling eddies of adoration, and devotion. A certainty of desire. It is not peace he sees in him, but contentment.</p><p>“Oh, my Obi-Wan,” he sighs. “I could never have planned for you. I could never have been prepared. If only you could see what I see.”</p><p>In the face of such an overwhelming opponent, Obi-Wan does what he always does: he smiles.</p><p>“Then show me, my darling,” he laughs, a challenge and a promise all in one.</p><p>And Qui-Gon grins back at him, diving in to silence his brazen cheek with his lips. He kisses him hard and bruising, sucking at Obi-Wan’s tongue, and thrusting his own deep into his mouth. He tastes sweet, stained with the sweet tea he’d been drinking earlier, his mouth still pleasantly cooled by the frozen treat. His hand closes over Obi-Wan’s throat, tighter as his passion builds and he increases his leverage, and he feels his chest rise beneath them, feels him gasp against his lips. But though they share a single breath, they are not close enough. He rolls slightly, bringing himself to rest more completely over Obi-Wan. Dexterous hands and lithe fingers trip over his shoulders, and along his ribs, pulling him closer, and Obi-Wan moans softly, the vibrations of sound resounding against his tongue.</p><p>Impatient, he drops a knee to Obi-Wan’s thighs, forcing them apart. His own leg presses higher, and higher until it runs up against the heavy length of Obi-Wan’s cock, hard and straining against the fabric of his breeches.</p><p>Without breaking from their kiss, or releasing his grip on Obi-Wan’s throat, Qui-Gon kneels upon the bed. He shifts his weight, and with his other hand, he slips beneath the band of Obi-Wan’s pants to grasp his eager cock. It twitches at his touch. Obi-Wan squirms, pinned under him. He turns his head from Qui-Gon, inhaling desperately, and choking on his name.</p><p><em>“Qui-!”</em> he gasps.</p><p>“Quiet, Padawan,” Qui-Gon orders, releasing Obi-Wan’s neck to press his thumb against his lips. It slips between them, red and swollen with kissing, and the rough suckling of his husband’s mouth is enough to set his own cock aching with need.</p><p>Obi-Wan whimpers, the reverberation of desire echoing in the Force between them, and writhes, rutting against Qui-Gon’s leg, wanton and so, so willing.</p><p>“Where was all this compliancy a moment ago, love?” Qui-Gon teases, though by the roughness in his voice Obi-Wan knows he is not the only one to have surrendered.</p><p>He opens his eyes to meet Qui-Gon’s, his tongue circling obscenely around the tip of Qui-Gon’s thumb, kissing it once, twice, before taking it into his mouth again, and biting. Qui-Gon grins, the pain driving him to force his mouth against Obi-Wan’s who eagerly leans in, freeing his thumb now lined with the deep imprint of teeth. With his brow against Obi-Wan’s, and their bodies pressed so close as to become the horizons of each other, Qui-Gon flattens his palm over the swell of Obi-Wan’s cock, and drags it down to caress his balls prompting a brief whimper to flare in Obi-Wan’s throat, until he moves further still to draw his fingers over the fluttering ring of his hole, sloppy with slick. The warm liquid spills over his knuckles, and he revels in the way it glides over the back of his hand, the way it collects in between his fingers, and drenches the fabric of Obi-Wan’s breaches, giving him away if the flush of his skin, and his racing heart already had not.</p><p>“Force, you’re so wet, you’re so ready,” Qui-Gon growls. “How could I not want this? How could I not want you like this, desperate and willing beneath me?”</p><p>With his hand thick with slick, he slides back and grasps Obi-Wan’s length firmly within his hand. Qui-Gon gives an experimental stroke, and to his satisfaction, Obi-Wan whines. It is a keening, needy thing. He smirks, stroking the hardened flesh again, Obi-Wan rising into the touch, lifting his head to catch Qui-Gon’s mouth, drawing his lower lip between his, and suckling. They fuel each other, the pressure of his hand driven by the hunger of Obi-Wan’s kiss, until his steady strokes prompt a madness of desire, and Obi-Wan cannot help but want to consume Qui-Gon. He’s pulled along by Qui-Gon’s whims, his movements become sharper, and more erratic. The bedsheets lose their own rigidity as they are kneaded beneath his hands. Qui-Gon does not relent, giving himself over to the rhythm, and the depth of the kiss. Though he comes close to his zenith, Qui-Gon shifts his grip, denying his release. It is maddening, this frustrated hunger, and Obi-Wan bites down upon his lip, his back arching, his hips thrusting against Qui-Gon’s grip, and he can taste blood. Qui-Gon bleeds, his hand stills for a moment as he is taken over by this new sensation. And when Obi-Wan tastes him on his tongue, he pulls back, a smirk curling in the corner of his swollen mouth, a drop of blood streaked across his lips. He looks wild. Dangerous. Sated on his lust. The warrior whose triumph lay couched and hidden in his defeat. And Qui-Gon thinks that somehow he has come up the conquered, again. But oh, he is so eager to pay fealty to this ancient god.</p><p>Though he knows - can scent the arousal that pools between his legs - that he could simply slip into that tight heat and use Obi-Wan’s slick to ease the friction of his ministrations, he does not. His pleasure will come later. For now, he is in a mood to dote on his love. To savour this delight.</p><p>He wipes the blood from Obi-Wan’s chin, then licks it from his own finger. It is sweet, and sharp. Thick on his tongue. But it does not satisfy his appetite.</p><p>“With your permission,” he says, “I wasn’t done yet.” And Obi-Wan grants it with a sigh.</p><p>He trails his thumb, clean of blood but wet with spit, over the coarse fibers of Obi-Wan’s beard, across the soft skin of his throat, and down to his chest. He hums to himself, kneeling, evaluating Obi-Wan laid out in erotic disarray before him.</p><p>“It’s impossible you don’t see how magnificent you are,” he mutters. “How perfect.”</p><p>Obi-Wan stares at him, still breathing fast and shallow. His eyes are so saturated with carnality they seem to contain fathoms, tempting Qui-Gon, drowning him even as he searches his face. He raises a palm, lying it flat over Obi-Wan’s brow to close them.</p><p>“Your eyes,” he says, brushing a kiss over each lid.</p><p>Obi-Wan’s breath flutters against Qui-Gon’s cheek.</p><p>“Your mouth.” Heat swirls in the breath between them as he kisses Obi-Wan languidly, swiping his tongue across the ridge of his palate. Obi-Wan moans softly, gnawing at his lower lip jealously as Qui-Gon pulls away.</p><p>“Your skin,” he says, dropping a kiss on the marks which adorn Obi-Wan’s forehead, and cheek. His nose skirts the fragile skin below Obi-Wan’s eye, and he can feel the artist’s stroke of his lashes as he accepts the benediction.</p><p>“Your beard.”</p><p>And Obi-Wan laughs, the apple of his throat leaping deliciously as Qui-Gon kisses either side of his jaw. His joy is infectious, and Qui-Gon chuckles, too. “I am perfectly serious,” he scolds. Obi-Wan only laughs harder, surging upward to steal another kiss. “And I’m not done.”</p><p>“Go on, then,” his idol replies.</p><p>“Your tits,” Qui-Gon growls. He palms the left one roughly, drawing a startled grunt from Obi-Wan, and he smirks. “You’ve somehow managed these perfect tits. Though I shouldn’t be surprised since you always demanded perfection in your athleticism. I should have expected you’d be no different in your fecundity.”</p><p>“For you,” Obi-Wan says, hardly more than a sigh. “Fuck me, Qui-Gon.”</p><p>“Wait,” he replies.</p><p>Qui-Gon leans forward, imparting kisses upon Obi-Wan knee, trailing up and down his thigh, deliberately grazing his beard against his skin and leaving gooseflesh in its wake. His hands reach Obi-Wan’s hips first, and without thought, they slip beneath the waistband of his sodden pants, and slide them down. At his ankles, impatient for Qui-Gon’s touch, Obi-Wan kicks them off. Qui-Gon’s mouth follows in its course across the hill of his belly, to the cradle of his groin. When he nears his goal, his gaze shifts and he hesitates. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Obi-Wan to shudder with anticipation, and tilt his head, lust-addled and searching. Their eyes meet, and without breaking contact, he takes Obi-Wan whole.</p><p>Qui-Gon’s mouth is hot and maddening. It is delightful, and novel, and Obi-Wan is half convinced it’s been eons since he’s allowed himself to feel this way, since he’s allowed Qui-Gon to unearth such pleasures. And here Qui-Gon is, consuming him as if he were laid out for a feast, and Qui-Gon a humble pauper neither expectant of such bounty, nor dismissive of it. How had he doubted this? He throws his head back, mouth opening to unleash a throaty cry as he’s devoured, his heels kick at the cushioned bedding, his hands scrambling for purchase. A hand large and powerful secures his hip, and fixes him in place. Fingertips indent his flesh, and Force, he wants there to be bruises to remind him of this. To remind him he is Qui-Gon’s, and Qui-Gon his.</p><p>It’s too much. This simple act of love reducing him to a writhing mess.</p><p>Obi-Wan reaches for him, his hands tangling in Qui-Gon’s hair, a wild combination of smooth locks, and vicious tangles he’d like to tear his fingers through but for all that it’s the only thing keeping him grounded in this moment. He makes a fist. Qui-Gon rocks forward, takes him deeper. The head of his cock is pressed against the wet, hot flesh at the back of Qui-Gon’s throat. He bites his lip, turning a shout into a ragged whimper as it’s suffocated between his teeth.</p><p>“I can’t, I can’t,” he pants. His hand flexes, fingers spread. He makes a fist again.</p><p>And then, there, at the quivering, slick-wet rim of his hole, Qui-Gon touches the tip of a finger. With his other hand, he moves Obi-Wan’s legs wider, one dangling from the edge of the bed, the other thrown over Qui-Gon’s shoulder. Obi-Wan slides down, desperate to get closer, to be taken deeper, to be penetrated, and devoured.</p><p>And Qui-Gon yields the delicious relief Obi-Wan begs for without mercy. He curls one finger, and then, in a moment, another against the centre of Obi-Wan’s pleasure, and proceeds to fuck him, slow, and precise.</p><p>A Sith curse, not for delicate ears, hisses between clenched teeth and Obi-Wan bucks into the hot mouth. Instinctively, Qui-Gon relaxes and takes the length of Obi-Wan’s cock, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. It’s utterly delicious, the lewd sounds that spill from Obi-Wan’s uncensored lips, and more than anything he wants to hear more. He wants to taste more.</p><p>He adds a third finger, scissoring the tight entrance before resuming his assault of Obi-Wan’s prostate who voices his approval with a strained ‘yes’. The exquisite nectre of arousal adds to the obscenity of noises that fill the room, squelching around the thrust of Qui-Gon’s fingers. He knows soon it will be his cock that fills Obi-Wan’s heat. As it was meant to be. A possessive growl rumbles in his throat at the thought, but he placates his desire quickly. Though his own cock is straining against his breeches and heavy with need, he reminds himself that this is about Obi-Wan. <em>Patience</em>, he thinks, and smiles at the old Jedi adage whose application he doubts was ever so crudely intended.</p><p>With that in mind, Qui-Gon alternates his technique.</p><p>Immediately, Obi-Wan responds, gasping as Qui-Gon’s lips affix to the sensitive fold of skin beneath his cock. <em>Oh, force!</em> He writhes beneath those hot lips, those probing fingers. He desires and rejects simultaneously, but need wins out. His lax grip in Qui-Gon’s hair fastens tight as he’s brought to the precipice of completion.</p><p>Qui-Gon pumps his cock and suckles, listening to the chorus of his lover's cresting peak. And then reaches out, touching his mind to Obi-Wan’s to witness the birth of divinity.</p><p><em>“Qui-Gon!”</em> Obi-Wan cries, spilling into the edacious mouth.</p><p>Qui-Gon takes the entirety of his spend willingly, greedily, easing the probing fingers to soothing circular movements. Obi-Wan quivers and whimpers in the aftermath of his climax. With a parting kiss upon the spent cock, Qui-Gon slides up the length of Obi-Wan’s body, to behold his lover. Just to look at him.</p><p>Obi-Wan regards him with heavy-lidded ecstasy, and Qui-Gon knows there is nothing more beautiful, more perfect, than this. Obi-Wan. So full and round and debauched. He closes the distance to secure his lips, wet and red, and he exchanges the sweet seed of Obi-Wan’s release. It is accepted willingly - eagerly - the way Obi-Wan has always accepted whatever Qui-Gon has given him. He kisses Obi-Wan deep, come and saliva folding between their tongues like heavy cream.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Do you see?” he asks. “Can you taste how sweet you are?”</p><p>Qui-Gon cups a milk-heavy breast, perfectly fitted to his hand, and squeezes. Obi-Wan groans appreciatively, the heat of his swollen flesh urging Qui-Gon for more. He pinches his nipple and feels it ripen between his fingers. Their kiss is broken with a cry only for Obi-Wan to regret their separation, and search out Qui-Gon’s mouth and claim it again.</p><p>It reminds Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan’s appetite reflects his own. Insatiable. And this time he doesn’t stifle the growl that gives rise in his chest, and stirs his throbbing cock. There’s urgency in the way Obi-Wan kisses him. A concoction of desperation and yearning. He doesn’t relent his hold of Qui-Gon, their breath shared as lips and tongues clash.</p><p>Obi-Wan’s fever transforms the longer they are intertwined. Once consumed with hunger, Obi-Wan’s actions turn desperate, unrelieved with desire still unquenched, and Qui-Gon feeds that desire, hands roaming, grasping and tugging too eager to be useful, too distracted by each rise and fall of the curves of his body to be effective, and Obi-Wan’s desperation increases the longer he’s denied the intimacy he craves.</p><p>Finally, his patience exhausted, he pulls back to rest their foreheads against one another.</p><p>“I need you.” He sobs.</p><p>Qui-Gon wipes away a stray tear. “I’m here, my love.</p><p>“I <em>need</em> you.” Obi-Wan repeats, leaving no question to his meaning. And Qui-Gon feels that very need thrumming through their connected flesh.</p><p>“Then you shall have me.” Qui-Gon promises before devouring Obi-Wan lips again, their erections painfully hard against each other.</p><p>He bites back a groan, Obi-Wan so incredibly wet and inviting, <em>begging</em> he be taken. Qui-Gon resists, and resists, wanting to draw out this moment and delay their gratification as long as possible, hovering on the event horizon of perfect happiness before he can resist no more. He calms himself with meditative breaths, inhaling deeply against Obi-Wan’s neck, lungs engulfed in his intoxicating scent. He presses his hands against Obi-Wan. He finds clarity and purpose amidst their base desire.</p><p>They moan in unison as two fingers slip inside.</p><p>Obi-Wan clamps around the fingers instinctively, as if to prevent their ever leaving. Qui-Gon grunts appreciatively. His fingers curl, cruel in their preparation as they skim over his prostate but never stay, and Obi-Wan can’t resist nudging his ass against the fingers, wanting more.</p><p>Qui-Gon chuckles. “Always so eager. Do you crave my cock so badly?”</p><p>“Presently?” Obi-Wan huffs. “Yes. Should you expect me to tolerate your incessant teasing much more, I might be forced to satisfy my-”</p><p>Qui-Gon curls his fingers in just the right spot and Obi-Wan seizes in his arms. He hums, amused by his brat, and repeats the motion, a whine accompanied by a pitiful eyes is all he receives in response.</p><p>“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Qui-Gon announces.</p><p>He turns, and positions his cock against the cleft of Obi-Wan’s ass. Grinding down, he coats himself with slick. It’s almost unbearable, he too, at the threshold of his resilience. With Obi-Wan’s overpowering scent, and demands for release, he can only afford a few controlled seconds to align himself before sinking in to reap delicious relief. Obi-Wan chokes on a sob as Qui-Gon bears his teeth on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, until he is fully seated on his cock.</p><p>Qui-Gon’s breath is hot upon his skin, panting as he holds still, a moment to bask in the clinging warmth of his mate. Obi-Wan reaches back to grasp at some part of him, he too, overcome by the sensation. The connectedness. Reunited in their purest form. Qui-Gon flicks his tongues over the tender bruise of his affection, soothing Obi-Wan with whispered reassurances, and oft repeated vows of devotion even as he pulls out, pulls away, the act excruciating as it teases the eventual return to their separate selves. But not yet. He repeats the motion, each withdrawal unbearable, each thrust overwhelming, each time drawing them closer. And though Obi-Wan’s desire is his, Qui-Gon grits his teeths and draws upon a surge of willpower to temper his building climax. He will see that Obi-Wan is first satisfied and spent and fucked.</p><p>They move as one, rocking against and away from one another in perfect harmony. Obi-Wan paws at the sheets, encouraging Qui-Gon with sweet noises of ecstasy. And Qui-Gon responds by driving himself deeper.</p><p>It’s sudden, when Obi-Wan comes again, as though for the first time. But Qui-Gon holds him, easing his rhythm to a languid rocking.</p><p>Glassy eyed, his hair a riotous mass of spilled fire, Obi-Wan looks back. “You didn’t come?”</p><p>“You are my priority,” Qui-Gon replies, dipping his head to ghost his lips over a flushed cheek. Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter at the gesture, and his heart swells. <em>This man. Qui-Gon. His own. His.</em> His actions have always been generous, always conducted with his well being as his top priority. All failures, and all mistakes forgiven, forgotten, consigned to the past, because he knows in this too, Qui-Gon is right: All his joys have far outweighed his sorrows, and in the midst of his trials, in the middle of the Clone Wars, enshrouded in the clinging mists of infinite sadness, Obi-Wan could never have expected that. But Qui-Gon was right.</p><p>And though content and at risk of dozing within Qui-Gon’s embrace, there is more he still craves. He would see Qui-Gon exhausted with bliss and his seed inside him. The very essence that brought them here, that got him with child. Their child.</p><p>“Is that so?” Obi-Wan hums. “And if I were to request that you’d have me again, that you would take of my body all that you desire? Bind us together in force made flesh?”</p><p>Qui-Gon stares at him, a deep smoulder that threatens to make Obi-Wan quake and arise again with need. He holds the gaze, sees himself reflected in those blue orbs, and risks he lose himself and fold beneath their intensity.</p><p>“You are insatiable,” Qui-Gon laughs, but then he vows. “And I am yours.”</p><p>A smile breaks across Obi-Wan’s face. He wraps one hand around the back of Qui-Gon’s neck and wrenches him closer, speaking into the heat of his mouth.</p><p>“Then fuck me,” he says.</p><p>And he claims him with a kiss.</p>
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